


got so much time alone again

by cloakofshadows



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Dancing, Gen, Light Angst, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Toreador Character(s) (Vampire: The Masquerade) - Freeform, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Toreador (Vampire: The Masquerade), character exploration, i listened to so much phoebe bridgers and mitski while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloakofshadows/pseuds/cloakofshadows
Summary: Anarch darling, Varya Nikolaev, dances away the night and her feelings for the first time since her embrace.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	got so much time alone again

The nights blended together soon after the Prince was blown to pieces, along with most of Venture Tower’s upper floors. 

For a night of solitude as instructed by the other Anarchs, Varya drifted around her spacious apartment—down the steps, up the steps, and down again. A delicate ghost haunting her own haven. 

Each wall was a grim reminder of the man who'd given it to her, as though she didn't incur enough scars from the late monarch of Los Angeles' Camarilla. The art, the furniture—even down to the paint on the walls—had the oppressive feeling of him poisoning every moment there. If she could, surely every moment of her time here would be spent taking shallow, panicked breaths. Instead, she gingerly laid across the couch, her legs draped over the arm. From this angle, the walls loomed overhead like a beige cell. 

She thought of spending the time with someone, anyone; there had to be another person who would pass the time in hiding with her. Nines, Damsel, Jack? Anyone? Surely they were all too busy tonight, as she’d learned so many times before. Still, Varya remained glued to her cellphone. If she hoped hard enough, there would be a phone call, a message, asking to see her. 

As the Anarchs picked up the pieces of the Camarilla’s presence, her need for companionship fell lower and lower on their order of importance. It wasn’t as though she was unreasonable; Varya understood there were more pressing matters to attend to. 

Anarch happenings took precedence over a lot of things lately. 

Still, the feeling permeated through her being like a broken heart. No longer was she to be their informant for Lacroix, so her mission was done—simple as that. The Anarchs had little use for her now, as she was unwilling to pursue a barony of her own, as others in her position elected to. 

Yet, she ached for someone to stand in solidarity with her, to fill the emptiness shrouding her in recent nights. The difference was stark; without others, Varya was isolated, quarantined in these four walls. 

As the delicate climate in Los Angeles was teetering on the edge of revolution, she was advised to stay out of sight for retaliation. Sabbat, Camarilla loyalists, and other power players would seek to destroy the Anarch darling who sent the Prince to his Final Death. And Varya wasn’t one for confrontation. 

But the gilded cage of her and Lacroix’s own making was beginning to close in on her. 

She sighed deeply and swung her legs off the arm of the couch, planting them firmly on the ground. If she would be alone tonight, surely she would make it enjoyable. 

With a heavy heart, Varya began digging through her closet. Stuffed in the corner and covered by a number of other belongings, the pink duffle bag was squashed and warped. She pulled it out, sending her other belongings falling into its place—no turning back now. 

She unzipped the bag and peeked inside; her practice outfits were still neatly folded, just as they had been all those nights ago when she had hoped to wear them last. It was hard to not think about the person she was when she prepared to wear her familiar garments—still breathing, the blood racing through her veins. Before too long, the memories of being alive sent ruby red tears trickling down her cheeks. 

It would be easy to put the clothes back in her closet and leave them for another night. Instead of opening old wounds, Varya could leave that part of herself behind. But she was much too attached to the idyllic memories. 

But she was here now, and that was all there was to count on. She slung the bag over her shoulder and slipped out of her apartment. 

* * *

Out on the street, the sounds of Downtown Los Angeles were a welcome symphony. Conversations turning into arguments, rhythmic pounding of music from Confession, wailing police cars all around made Varya’s chest flutter. The city was alive tonight. How delightful it was to be among the land of the living, instead of stowed away in her apartment. 

The theatre was only a short walk away from her building, but the time outside was a much welcome change. For a moment, she could blend in with the everyday people of the city. No one would give her a second look; she was just a regular person going about her business in the night. She could smile at strangers, stare out into the muggy night sky; she could do anything. 

She took a deep breath and began to follow the sidewalk to the theatre. Her heels click-clacked against the concrete as she strutted. Her chest puffed, Varya took her time to enjoy the short stroll. Too many times had she run across downtown L.A. instead of savoring the grungy city; it was enchanting in its own way. The people watched her sashay by, but she was undeterred, returning their scrutinizing gazes with toothy grins. 

Just crossing the street to the Nocturne Theatre was exhilarating. Maybe she’d walk to The Last Round just to catch up with the Anarchs and learn about what was happening recently. The night was still young. 

She looked left and right as she approached the double doors of the theatre. With a confident tug, the door stayed put in response—locked. The sewers were always a possibility to enter the theatre, but one she would prefer to avoid for the rest of her unlife. Instead, she looked at the lock itself—it actually looked rather simple for such a large building. 

A younger, more inexperienced Varya would be deterred, but she was well-equipped for such an obstacle, having learned from those closest to her. She slid bobby pins out of her hair and began to fiddle with the keyhole. Occasionally, she glanced over her shoulder. With the final click, she twisted the lock and opened the door. With one more look behind her, Varya slipped inside the building, shutting the door quietly. 

Inside, the theatre was deathly silent. For possibly the first time ever, she entered through the front door of the building, she thought. A strange feeling of normalcy came over her; this was the way things should have been. 

The theatre was vastly different from this side of things. It was unremarkable and not too unlike the number of stages she had performed on in life. But she couldn’t fool herself; this was nearly her final resting place. 

The Primogen, Anarchs, Kindred of all sects walked in this way and took their seats—front row to her execution all those nights ago. 

No; she wasn’t necessarily alone on that stage, but it was the loneliest feeling to stare into the audience that watched her almost meet her Final Death. Her sire—the man who brought her into this world of darkness—was beheaded and turned to ash. She was next in line to slaughter. 

Varya had questions for him, but none would be answered in this lifetime. 

From where she stood, the stage where she knelt was just that: a stage. Nothing personal about destroying Varya and her sire, but the show must go on. What was it like to see her from this angle, to watch this creature come back to life just to die again? 

She locked her fingers together, steadying herself at the memories of that night. Certainly, she wanted this—to stand front and center and look out into the empty seats. But her feet were cemented in the aisle where she stood. 

The stage pulled Varya in, beckoning to her to take it like she’d done so many times in a previous life. Her breath hitched in her throat, vitae tingling under her cold skin. How easy it would be to crawl back home in shame. 

To her right were the seats where Nines and the Anarchs called for Lacroix to spare her. How she wished he was here to give her an encouraging word. Surely, he’d know what to say now; he always did. 

But it was just her. She was the only (un)living being in this theatre. It was only ever her, and it would have to be enough. These wounds couldn’t severe the ties to her old life anymore. 

She took a confident step toward the stage, hopping over the railing and navigating her way from the wings to the dressing room. 

After opening door after door, she found the small room where she could ready herself. It was small and dark; a mirror reflected the sliver of light that poured in from opening the door. She stumbled around until she felt a light switch and flicked it on. The light revealed a dusty dressing room, complete with metal chairs and dirty mirrors plastered to the walls. She left the door open and dropped her bag on one of the chairs, fishing out the various parts of her practice clothing. 

Piece by piece, Varya pulled the clothes on. Varya began pulling her long locks into a low bun at the nape of her neck, securing it out of her face with an extraordinary number of pins. 

She looked like she stepped back in time; she watched an unfamiliar person staring back at her in the mirror. This woman was certainly her: blonde hair, pale skin, blue eyes were the same, but the feeling was entirely different. Maybe it was just growing up. 

After slicking back and pulling everything in place, Varya studied herself in the mirror. She contorted, analyzing her look in the mirror—not her best work, but it would have to do. 

She fished out a pair of ballet slippers from her bag, contained in their own, smaller plastic bag. Inside were a pair from the night she met with Luka—the night he brought her into this world. He was decent enough to spare her clothes from spilling blood—or vitae—on them. The same wave of feeling washed over her again: she knew they were hers, but the feeling was different. They were broken in and ready to be worn, she didn’t want to be sentimental about it. 

Varya sat down on the carpeted floor, preparing her ballet slippers. Lacing them up was pure muscle memory. Her mind went quiet as she tied each ribbon, elastic, and thread into its rightful place. 

Finally, she stood up in a swift movement. She could feel the grounding sensation under her feet, as the thin slippers gave little in the way of support. Once more, she checked herself in the mirror and slipped out of the dressing room. 

Out here, only the small light from the street lit the theatre. It wasn’t long before she went hunting for the stage lights for the full experience. She walked along the walls, only using her cell phone for a small amount of light, occasionally bumping into things along the way. Varya found a lightswitch towards the back of the theatre, illuminating up the audience’s seats; not what she’d hoped for, but it certainly did the job. Now, she was in full view of the dim stage—still better than the near-complete blackness of the night. 

Jogging to the stage, she began her rituals of ballet, beginning with stretching out her cold, stagnant muscles. She rested on the railings for support while pulling. One leg, then the other following soon after. 

There was no familiar burn of warming up the body for the grueling task of dancing; no labored breathing, no sweat building on her brow. Her body was just a means of carrying out a task with none of the physical sensations. Those feelings were long gone, she thought. 

Still, she raised, flexed, and pulled each limb into submission. Like a well-oiled machine, her body complied. A kind, subservient corpse under her manipulation, she was still limber even after crawling through sewers, falling through staircases, and being pummeled by ravenous creatures. 

Surely by now, her body would have been properly warmed up for each unkind movement she would contort it into. She couldn’t avoid what she came here to do—no number of exercises could truly prepare her for the stage before her. 

Varya hoisted herself onto the railing, balancing with the all the grace of a cat and then some. In one fluid movement, she leapt onstage with a sweeping flourish in a striking surge of power. That was something she would need to get accustomed to; the well of strength and dexterity in her body was still foreign to her. 

The stage was littered with tape, each one scuffed and aged. She stepped to one closest to her, her body posed to launch in her first dance. 

She rolled from her heel to her toe, rocking herself into proper pointe technique. One foot up, one foot down, she stepped in place with little movement. Each arm moved like a wave around her—fluid and complete. The familiarity set in; muscle memory took the reign, moving her from one edge to the other. A leap here, a step pattern there, Varya floated across it. The dance flowed from her, only stumbling when she misstepped or forgot. 

Move after move, Varya left the world behind. She was left with only the stage, only herself. 

* * *

The hazy sunrise bounced off the concrete outdoors. Before stepping into another routine, Varya caught the sight of the indirect sunlight. She gasped before scrambling back to her belongings. The dressing room was still brightly lit, everything was still in its place—just as she left it in the deathly silence. 

She made a mad dash for her bag, hitting the lightswitch on her way out. From the edge of the stage, she took a running start to leap across the railing and into the aisle. Into a sprint, Varya ran, duffle bag jostling against her frame as she sprinted toward the entry. She collided with the door with her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. It squeaked in response to her force and swung open. 

Varya broke into a dead sprint for the Skyeline Apartments before the rays of sunshine could come down on her. She muttered a sorry! between dodging people on the street. Most only grumbled in response, but she was long gone. 

Once inside, she took to the stairwell, taking two at a time up the four flights to her haven. From where she stood in the hallway outside her apartment, the small window peered over the city to reveal the sun flooding the streets with light. Lucky break she wasn’t out there longer. 

Varya produced a keycard to her haven. The green light blinked at her; she tugged on the handle and pushed inside. Just like the theatre, she was the sole (un)living being in these walls. Not one thing out of place, the haven was just as she left it. She threw down her bag at the door, making her way upstairs to prepare for daysleep. 

Once in bed, she took one last glimpse at her cellphone. On the screen was a slew of messages and missed phone calls. She would have to leave them for later; this rest was well-deserved.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my wonderful gf for proofing this for me!! and thank YOU for reading this!  
> -  
> i was very sad writing this lmao


End file.
